As children, as friends, Ahab and I grew up
On the weather side of Nantucket,
Frequenting the wharves and churches
Of whalery. That our paths led to the sea
Was determined by our heritage, by our locale,
By our inclinations, by hard-bitten necessity.
Ahab's captaincy was hard won, familial
Influence marginal. He worked his way
From before the mast to the quarterdeck
In slow and difficult steps. Once there
He stood proudly, and what was to befall him
Was not even a moonraker on the horizon.
He married and sired, as did I, but I
Gave up the sea, took to crops, fool that I am.
When I heard of Moby Dick, and the wraith
And wreck that had become Ahab, I mourned,
Mourned for a lost friend, for he was gone.
His obsession is well documented, no need
To repeat what is known, there is only this to say—
He was loved. He was loved as a husband,
As a father, as a friend, and briefly, as a captain.
That spermaceti and rendered oil brought his death,
And the death of the crew that bid his will,
Seems unfair trade. Yet, there was nothing
Unique in his death, only his passion in seeking it.
Poetry by jim
Read 130 times
Written on 2018-04-10 at 05:48
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